Arms ablaze as we ride out to battle (Let us die in honour)
by Shamelessly Radiant
Summary: Eowyn, daughter of Éomund, shieldmaiden of Rohan, you have every right to ride out to battle, and yet you are forced to disguise yourself. You will not wither away, you will make yourself heard. You are a woman. That does not make you less.


" _All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death."_

This is how you lose yourself.

Your father dies, and your mother withers away with grief. You walk through the halls of this castle, a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and think to yourself: _there has to be more than this life._

Gently, quietly, you let this thought go with the birds that wake you up each morning, with the water you splash your King's face with.

You look at your brother, and rage, _rage_ but quietly, ever contained. He loves you, but he does not understand- there is so much more in this life that you want, but cannot take. It evades your grasp. You are but a girl. You do what you are commanded to do, you look at children and you feel only detachment, and yet you know. Someday, that is what the future holds in store for you, only because your birth decided it.

You roam this castle, feel _his_ eyes ever on you as you grow and grow and he poisons your King's, your uncle's mind with lies and treason. Rohan and Gondor become two where there once was one, and Éomer comes and goes freely. Your life has become what you fear most of all- not pain, not death, a cage.

Then, _he_ comes, and in him you see freedom. A ranger, a wanderer, an heir- and you do not know this yet: a lost King. One day yours, but not in the way you want. You look to him for hope, you see in him what your uncle should have been, what your father was before he was taken from you. He disappoints you. He turns out to be no different than your brother, than your uncle. Than- dare you say it?- Grima wormtongue.

They all use pretty words to describe this gilded cage. Aragorn tells you renown is not all that matters in life, but you hear what he means. You understand. He means you are not a man, and you should stay behind. But you are Éowyn, Éomund's daughter. You are a King's daughter, a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and he denies you this. You feel the walls closing in around you again, as they did on those bitter cold nights when you felt all alone in this world. You feel yourself shrink- you will not allow yourself this. Too long have you let others decide your faith.

You ride out to battle, disguised even though this is your birth right. To ride out next to your King, to stand between him and his enemy, to die for him, a worthy dead. To die in honour, and not in a burning house left behind by the men you love, the ones who claim they love you. You are of the House of Eorl. You are not a serving-woman. You can ride and wield blade, and you do not fear either pain or death. You fear above all things being left behind, being in a cage. Now, you free yourself from it. As you should have done long time ago. You are not a damsel in distress. You are no longer a girl. You are a woman.

This is how you find yourself.

No. This is not how you find yourself. You were never lost, you were locked up. This is how you reclaim yourself.

You stand between your lord and kin and his enemy, and you free yourself from your disguise. You laugh as the enemy rises and rises and rises above you, you laugh as your shield shatters in your hand, you laugh through your fear.

You are no living man. You are a woman, a King's daughter. You are cold, but your love is bright- coldness burns too.

You are a woman. You are not more than any other woman, you are not less than any other man. You strike your enemy, and you fall down beside your king. Near death, you know you are dying, this is your rightful place.

They will not tell stories of your end. You do not end here.

You live. You reclaim yourself. You pick up the pieces and burry them inside you, you fight to earn what has always been rightfully been yours, what should never have been taken from you.

Faramir will not come to love you because you are soft, nor kind. You are cold, but not coldhearted. You are beautiful, yes, but you are so much more than your beauty. You are a King's daughter, you are a warrior, you are Queen in your own right- not by any allegiance made for you but because you choose to be.

You are a shieldmaden of Rohan, and you deserve to be acknowledged. Faramir sees you as a woman. He does not see you as less than a man.

He does not free you from your cage. Neither does Aragorn. You free yourself. You do not need anyone else, but you allow him. You do not find yourself in him- you were never lost, remember? But you find in him someone you can share your burden with when it becomes too heavy to bear.

This is how you reclaim yourself: you stand upon a battlefield, you look an enemy in the eye and you do not end. You are Éowyn, Éomund's daughter. Théoden's daughter in all but name. You are a shieldmaiden of Rohan.

You are a woman. You will defy everyone who believes this makes you less.


End file.
